


Obitus

by editorbit



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, One Shot, ft. that german pilot for like two seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: When Thomas Blake comes to, all he knows is pain.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Kudos: 50





	Obitus

When Thomas Blake comes to, all he knows is pain. 

The scent of blood forces its way into his nose with every deep and painful breath. It’s metallic, overwhelming and disgusting, and when he parts his lips to breathe through his mouth in an attempt to rid himself of the unbearable smell - jaw tense and lips chapped - he tastes it. It coats his tongue, gets stuck in between his teeth, clings to the roof of his mouth and it’s unavoidable. He needs the air and can’t stop breathing, but with every painful breath there’s the scent and taste of his own dark blood. Blake finds himself heaving for both air and water, chest rising and falling rapidly. Every breath is ignited behind his teeth, burns all the way down his throat and sets fire to his lungs. 

Water. He needs water. The mere thought - because they’re all just that, thoughts, words in his mind that his dry lips want nothing to do with - sends a small wave of déjà vu over him along with the thirst. Still, he can do nothing but lie there and inaudibly beg for at least one drop. One raindrop from the blurry sky above. 

The sounds of his own misery penetrate his ears. Every inhale is shaky and rapid, and he can hear them all too loud to be normal. He can hear the gasps leaving his lips as he breathes in yet another breath, and he’s brought back to dark, stormy nights spent under his blankets with gasps just like these ones escaping his lips. He can hear the air brushing harshly against the inside of his throat, like the strongest winds of a storm hitting an old house. He can hear the unnatural, squeaky, almost reedy, noise somewhere inside his chest as his lungs fill once more, like creaking wood. Every moment he holds his breath is like the few moments of silence in a storm, where the noise of thumping is all he hears - waves of rain against a window or his pulsating insides. Every exhale is quick, yet just as painful, like the lightning strikes lighting up a dark room for a mere second, followed by whimpers - filled with terror or pain. 

Blake hears himself finally calling out; calling out for help and water. At first his cries for help are mere movements of his lips, no sound coming through other than his rapid panting and the uncontrollable noises from deep within him of pain and suffering. It’s only after he gathers as much spit as possible to at least try to rid himself of the pure dryness in his mouth that he speaks. His voice is raspy and barely audible, and he’s only halfway through his first word when his voice cracks miserably, like a fragile vase by an open window knocked over by the wind. Clearing his throat and swallowing sends sparks of pain down his throat, but finally, finally he can speak at least a little bit. 

He finds himself calling out to Schofield. His voice is desperate and filled to the brim with pain. He himself is filled with pain, because the pain is everywhere. The vibrations of his voice scrape his throat like small blades. A new, shaky breath is taken and his lungs burn. Every slight move of his arms and legs in an attempt to get up sends him writhing in pain in the grass, hands instinctively gripping his stomach, Schofield’s name on his lips. Though what hurts the most is the lack of response. 

Above him hangs the dull afternoon sky, empty and unaffected by the misery happening beneath it. It’s covered in a layer of grey clouds, bright enough for his eyes to hurt if he stares too long. Still, he finds that if he closes them the pain becomes less bearable and more difficult to ignore, so he stares anyway. Blue eyes swimming in a mixture of white and red search the empty sky for a certain familiar face, but meet nothing but a dull field of clouds. He searches for soft, caring eyes glossed over with tears, complete with ever so slightly furrowed brows. He misses the warm, reassuring hands holding him close and never letting go. He craves the familiar voice sounding through the air like music, drowning out the pain, speaking to him and telling him it will be alright. 

Blake needs to find Schofield.

Lifting his head he’s met with the sight of red. Blood is everywhere. It’s staining the fabric of his uniform, leaving it a dark, murky, almost muddy looking colour. It covers both his hands, especially the one clutching the wound. The sight of it is nauseating and he has to turn his head and tear his gaze away before he gags. He wipes his free hand in the grass and watches how it doesn’t transfer. It’s dried down, stuck to his skin like a tattoo, until he clenches his hand. The blood then falls off in flakes. Like snow they fall to the ground, disappearing into the green grass and it’s only then he realises he has been moved. Schofield must have dragged him out of the dirt and onto the soft, green rug that is the grass and the realisation sends a hint of something foreign and unfamiliar through him. The sensation is warm, yet icy cold compared to the pain heating his body up like a fire. It’s like a soft, cozy blanket wrapped around him, a warm mug clutched in his hands and calming words uttered into his hair on a stormy night. 

It does something to him. It numbs the pain, even if ever so slightly. It gives him that extra push that sends him into the deep end. Hands digging into the green grass he braces himself before pushing himself up into a sitting position. If he had anything in his stomach to throw up, he would, because the pain in his abdomen is unbearable. The world seemingly disappears around him as he pushes on - because he can’t stop now while he’s ahead - and gets up on shaky legs. Muscles quiver in pain and determination to keep him standing. Lips part as pained curses and cries leave them as often as his rapid breaths. Everything around him blurs, his surroundings a mere abstract painting, a moving canvas filled with colours blending into one another and creating a dizzying mess. Fabric completely soaked in dry, caked blood rubs against his skin with every move. 

Every step is agony. The sensation of his weak and tired feet hitting the ground - grass followed by dirt - makes him wince and clench his eyes shut. The throbbing in his stomach blends so well into his loud heartbeat that he can’t tell which is which. The hand not clutching his wound hangs out in the air to keep his balance. It’s unnaturally pale and visibly quivers - or so he believes at least with his ever so slowly recovering vision. Three steps later and all he wants to do is sit. Five steps later and he thinks he might pass out then and there, head first into the dirt. Yet here he is now, ten steps down and only-God-knows-how-many left to go. 

It’s only when he reaches the water pump he allows himself a break. Though he doesn’t allow himself to sit and drink, because he knows if he does, he might not ever get up again and the thought alone scares him. The taste of the most definitely dirty, lukewarm and metallic water is on his tongue before he can even reach his hand out to catch some of the droplets falling from the pump. The hand - now barely blurry, yet still not completely clear - in his view is bloody and he knows if he drinks from it the water will taste like a handful of blood, but he doesn’t care. His throat is dry, his lips stick to his teeth and every deep breath scrapes almost audibly against the inside of his mouth already tasting of blood. He’s never felt thirst like this ever before. 

He watches the first drop fall towards his blood red hand. It sparkles wetly and he can’t help but lick his dry lips with his sandpaper textured tongue. The action does nothing but exposing his already dry tongue to the dry air, but his mind is elsewhere. He watches as it falls and falls for what feels like an eternity, legs threatening to give in under him and body shaking with pain, anticipation and desperation. 

He watches the droplet of tainted water fall and fall, never stopping. His heart seemingly drops with it. 

"No. No, please." His words are mere whispers slipped through his lips like the droplet slips right through his hand. His hand shakes as yet another droplet falls. It falls and falls, impossible to catch. The sound of water droplet after water droplet hitting the bottom of the water pump sound through his mind like bombs. Louder and louder they get, seemingly never stopping - not until he pulls away, stumbling back on weak legs. The constant noise is too much - the droplets exploding in his ears, his heart beating violently in his chest and the pain running through him like a disease, making this loud - too loud - thumping noise. 

"This can’t be." By now he’s fairly sure he’s shouting - or is at least trying to - and if it weren’t for the obvious movements of the lips almost stuck to his teeth he’d be mistaking it for a quiet, hushed mumble in his loud, panicked state of mind. The new dose of adrenaline pumping through him, only adding to the noisy chaos that is his mind, sends him stumbling further and further, legs barely holding him up. Before he knows it, he’s halfway through the door of the house. 

As he stumbles almost drunkenly through the empty, hollow shell of a house, only one thought stands out amongst the mess taking up the rest of the space in his mind; Schofield. 

His pale, bloody hands grip every available surface for support, whether it be doorway or wall. He can feel the way the blood bunches up and flakes off his skin and he can only watch as red flakes fall before disappearing into the floorboards. His wound pulsates beneath his uniform, as if it’s still pumping blood like a water pump, but whenever he presses his hand to it, not a drop slips past the fabric, staining his skin. The blood covering his hands like a second layer of skin is dry. His vision blurs with every step and for a moment he believes he sees something. Something is out there, but he can’t see properly and he blinks profusely. Distorted noises enter his ears, shapes move somewhere out there by the road and something wells up in his chest, something that pushes him to keep going. 

Equally pale and bloody hands grab him from behind, pulling him back with an unexpected force. A pained sound escapes his lips as his body all but screams in protest. His heart audibly skips a few beats in his chest before beating even quicker than it already had been. The hands are cold, even through the many layers of his uniform and goosebumps spread across the skin they touch. They grip him uncomfortably tight and he can already feel the bruises. Words find their way into his ears, audible yet incomprehensible. The tone they’re uttered in is panicked and desperate and once again a wave of déjà vu knocks into him as harshly as he knocks into the owner of the cold, dead hands. 

It’s him. Blake recognises the voice. 

Taking the brief surprise to his advantage, he pulls away. He shuts out every single, tiny grain of that empathy that had been the end of him in the first place. He lets the sound of his own panicked heart and throbbing pain drown out the desperate, unknown words. He doesn’t think, just shoves with all his remaining strength and runs. All he feels is pain, all he hears is his heartbeat and all he sees is the truckload of soldiers ever so slowly beginning to inch away from him. 

All he thinks is that Schofield’s sitting in that truck and so he asks no questions and merely follows. Ignoring the pain running through him, he runs and runs as fast as his aching feet can carry him. Once he’s close enough he takes his shot, body protesting and vision once again failing him. If he lands face first in the dust, trucks slowly disappearing over the horizon, never to be seen here again, then so be it. One glance at Schofield is all he could ever wish for in this moment. 

When Thomas Blake comes to, all he knows is pain. The wound in his abdomen pulsates, his heart races in his chest, his ears ache and the scent and taste of blood and death fills his nose and mouth. The dryness in his mouth is unbearable and no spit is to be collected. Opening his eyes, he’s met with a familiar face. The eyes staring out the back of the truck are glossed over with tears, complete with furrowed brows, yet hold none of the softness and care they held what feels like years ago. The hands he knows still hold some warmth, much unlike his own, tremble ever so slightly. The voices in the heavy air are cheerful and inviting, but fall on deaf ears. 

"Sco." The name slips past soft lips holding the beginning of a smile. His body utters no word as he seats himself before his friend, hands touching the ever so slightly flushed cheeks and thumbs running through wet tears. The muscles beneath his warm hands twitch, even if only a little, and Blake can practically hear his breath hitch. 

"It’ll be alright."


End file.
